


Double Trouble

by Fireplum



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Humor, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-31
Updated: 2013-10-31
Packaged: 2017-12-31 02:29:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1026210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fireplum/pseuds/Fireplum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My answer to Morbidmegz's Halloween prompt: "Sherlock is on a case at a murder mystery dinner party, and he brings Molly as his date. She ends up being one of the ‘victims’. She’s safe, but Sherlock doesn’t know this until he finishes solving both the case and the mystery, and finds her waiting for him in one of the several rooms." Just an excuse for Sherlolly shenanigans, really. Enjoy!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Double Trouble

“John, I have terrible news.”

 

Sherlock sits down solemnly in front of John and he looks up from his newspaper, his forehead lined with worry and his eyes still ringed from the night before (out with Mary again, that woman will run him positively ragged with all this irresponsibly frequent intercourse).  “What? What’s wrong?”

 

“It’s about the Cartwright case,” Sherlock says. “I’m going to solve it tonight.”

 

John raises an eyebrow. “Okay,” he replies slowly. “And how is that terrible news?”

 

“No, no, it’s just that…” Sherlock takes a deep breath. “I can’t take you along with me. I... I need someone else’s help this time.”

 

Sherlock was expecting John to hide his disappointment by putting on a brave face, but his friend simply gapes at him. John is no doubt preparing to berate him and who can blame him for it? After all, he worked on this case as hard as Sherlock did – harder, in fact, since John needs to make up for multiple shortcomings where he himself does not.

 

“Sherlock, that’s… that’s fine,” John finally says with a half-laugh. “Whatever it takes, I don’t mind. Mary wanted to go to the movies tonight anyway.”

 

Sherlock purses his lips slightly. “Well, I’m glad you feel two hours of mindless entertainment surrounded by blithering idiots is a suitable replacement for the apprehension and arrest of a dangerous criminal. Shall I make a handy flow chart for you in lieu of explanation as well?”

 

“Come on, Sherlock, you know I’m interested in this case, but I know better than to argue when you’ve already come up with a plan. Who’s going to play trusty companion this time?”

 

“A woman.”

 

The edges of John’s mouth flinch slightly but he coughs it down. “Really? That’s… unusual.”

 

“And indispensable, I’m afraid. I’ve secured an invitation to a _murder party_ , as they call it, over at Hardwick House and it’s couples only. And before you ask, yes, I did consider the possibility that in our day and age two men is a perfectly acceptable arrangement, but given the political leanings of the guests, I don’t think it will go over well.”

 

“So, a _woman_ ,” John insists. “You’re taking a woman out on a date.”

 

“Don’t be idiotic,” Sherlock spits, “this is work. I’m sure Mrs Hudson will perfectly understand the difference between the two.”

 

“ _Mrs Hudson_? You’re going to masquerade our seventy year-old landlady as your girlfriend?”

 

“Who else could I possibly ask?”

 

“Someone who’s not old enough to be your mother, for starters. Do you want those people to think she’s some sort of old bag paying for the services of a younger man?”

 

“I hadn’t thought of that,” Sherlock admits. “It would be rather unpleasant for her, I suppose. But then, who? I can’t possibly get a hold of Irene Adler in time…”

 

John shakes his head and sighs. Sherlock recognises that expression: unbelievably, John has figured something out before he has. A rare occurrence, but that doesn’t make it any less infuriating.

 

“Who? Who are you thinking of? Tell me now!” he demands.

 

“Let’s see, who do we know is young, pretty and available at the drop of a hat whenever you ask for her?”

 

“It’s kind of you to offer Mary’s services, but -”

 

“ _Molly Hooper_ , you colossal twit!”  

 

“Oh.” Sherlock leans back into his chair. It makes perfect sense. Interesting that his mind didn’t latch on immediately to that idea. Interesting, but somewhat preoccupying. “I see. Thank you, John. She will do.”

 

“Don’t mention it,” John says and quickly raises the paper in front of his face again, but not before Sherlock can see a distinctively amused smile on his lips.

 

 

#

 

 

A phone call is made and, ever so predictably, Molly immediately agrees to accompany him. She seems rather excited at the prospect as well, even though she tries to hide it in her own clumsy way.

 

“I’ll pick you up at your flat at seven sharp,” he tells her. “Hardwick House is an hour outside London by car. I rented a BMW, I thought it was only fitting if I’m to pass for Oliver Clark, hedge fund prodigy.”

 

“And I’m – I’m your girlfriend, then?” she asks, her voice wavering slightly. “But then we’ll have to  - I mean, no, that’s silly, obviously we can’t - ”

 

“Molly, it will perfectly suffice if I have you at my arm, so please don’t trouble yourself with unnecessary questions of etiquette,” Sherlock snaps.

 

“Right, of course.”

 

A few hours later, Sherlock knocks at her door and Molly opens. Sherlock immediately notices (with some measure of pride, he has to admit) the physical effects his appearance has on her – eyes dark, flushed cheeks, elevated breath. A remarkable reaction to a simple black tie getup and slicked hair; perhaps he should investigate further.

 

“Hello, Sherlock,” she says, a little breathless. “You look… you look very handsome.”

 

She makes way for him and he enters the flat. “Thank you, Molly. If you don’t mind, I think we’d better -”

 

He stops, for now he has noticed something else. Molly looks different. In fact, she looks almost _un-Molly_. It’s not just the makeup or the high heels, but her dress, a pale satin frock with a black lace overlay that shows off her legs and arms. It’s ridiculous, she’ll be freezing in October weather and that thing is so light and flimsy, like a slip – _slip_ , _slippery_ , something easy to slide on and slide off and… Sherlock shakes his head.

 

“We’d better go if we don’t want to be late,” he finishes.

 

Molly puts on her coat and grabs her purse and they’re out the door. As they ride the elevator down and walk towards his parking space a block away, Sherlock can’t help but notice that he’s more acutely aware of her than usual, and the feeling doesn’t go away when they’re sitting inside the car. In fact, it grows worse when he catches a glimpse of the hem of her dress hitching up her thighs, and he’s so annoyed with himself that he almost snaps at her to close her coat but instead decides on silence. John wouldn’t want him to be rude to Molly. John would probably insist he make an effort in social niceties to reward her for her trouble. But John isn’t the one trapped in a car with an amorous pathologist wearing not much else than an undergarment.

 

“So, what’s the case about?” Molly asks as they slog through London traffic.

 

“Gerard Cartwright, forty-three years old, CEO, under treatment for a heart condition, died suddenly last week,” Sherlock says shortly. “No traces, no sign of entry, no known relatives who could profit from the death.”

 

“Sounds a bit… dull, doesn’t it? Why did you take this case?”

 

“His company was under contract with the British government. Mycroft heckled me into it.”

 

“And so, these people whose place we’re going to tonight…”

 

“My main suspect will be present at the party.”

 

“Right. Is there any way I can help? I know John would be more useful to you, but perhaps -”

 

“No. You’re a simple decoy, Molly, so the best you can do is stay out of trouble and out of my way.”

 

Molly’s face falls and she stares at her hands. Sherlock instantly feels a hot pang of guilt. Why must he be so blunt with her? What is it that pushes him to act so brashly towards someone who’s so kind? This is just like _that_ Christmas, when she brought him a gift and he humiliated her for no good reason.

 

They have just entered the motorway when it occurs to him that the only common element to both cases is Molly dressed to the nines and showing off a significant portion of her body, usually well concealed by her cardigans and her lab coat. A blush creeps up his neck. Can his cretin of a brother possibly be right? Does sex indeed alarm him? No, he will prove this theory wrong, starting right now.

 

“I’m sorry, Molly,” he says. “I shouldn’t have said that. You’ve proven time and again that you’re more than capable in times of danger. I just… I just don’t want to get hurt, that’s all.”

 

Molly smiles. “That’s nice of you, Sherlock, but don’t worry about me. I won’t get in the way of your deducing, I promise.”

 

Sherlock reflects that she already may have, but stifles any further thoughts in that direction.

 

 

#

 

 

Sherlock sips his champagne flute very slowly, hoping to make it last long enough that he doesn’t have to take another and put a definitive damper on his mental skills. Molly has no such qualms and is already on her third.

 

“What a lovely Victorian manor,” she chatters on at his arm. “But it’s almost a bit spooky, isn’t it?”

 

Sherlock emits a grunt but keeps his eyes focused on Sylvester Brandt, a businessman who belonged to the same club as Cartwright at university and is only one small mistake away from being sealed as his murderer.

 

“See anything of interest?” Molly whispers.

 

“Someone tampered with Cartwright’s medication and whoever did so used his left hand to unscrew the lid, however Brandt writes with his right,” Sherlock thinks aloud. “On close observation I’ve begun to suspect he’s a thwarted left-hander. A relaxed environment and a few glasses of champagne ought to -”

 

Suddenly the lights go out and there’s a blood-curling scream. Molly’s hand tightens around his biceps. Then their hostess, Mrs Berkeley, a large woman stuffed in a tight dress, appears with a candelabrum in hand.

 

“The Earl of Monmouth has just been murdered, his throat slit in cold blood, and one of _you_ is the culprit,” she says dramatically. “But who? You, my dear guests, have just a few hours to find out! And to make things a little more challenging, we’ll go by candlelight for the rest of the evening.”

 

The guests applaud delightedly as Mrs Berkeley passes out each player’s card while artificial candles are lit around the room. Sherlock barely glances at his card – no doubt he could figure out who the culprit is in less than ten minutes – and scans the group for Brandt, who’s talking to his wife, an attractive blonde in a low-cut gown.

 

“All right, let’s get this over with,” he mumbles. “Molly, you play along and try not to stray too close to Brandt. Not only is he potentially a criminal, but I’ve heard he’s quite the womanizer as well.”

 

“But what if he comes to talk to me? We’re supposed to mingle.”

 

“Then look closely which hand he uses the most. Ask him to grab you a champagne flute, that shouldn’t be too much of a stretch.”

 

Molly’s eyes glimmer softly in the dim light. “You’re awful.”

 

Sherlock doesn’t have time to ponder on why this makes his chest tighten. He stalks off into the shadow and gets to work.

 

 

#

 

 

“Lestrade, it’s me.”

 

The reception is bad and Greg Lestrade’s voice crackles slightly when he answers. “Sherlock? Why does it sound like you’re calling from the inside of a cupboard?”

 

“Because I am. Now don’t make me speak any louder or someone might hear!”

 

“What the hell is going on?”

 

“Gerard Cartwright!” Sherlock hisses. “I told you I have my suspicions on Sylvester Brandt but it turns out it’s his wife!”

 

“His wife? How on earth did you figure that out? And why would she even do it?”

 

“It would take too long to explain now, but…”

 

“Give me something, Sherlock, I can’t make an arrest on a simple hunch.”

 

“Fine! Knew Cartwright for years, slept with him, trying to boost her husband’s own company by eliminating a rival and… well, I’m one of those inane murder parties at Hardwick House. Let’s just say that Mrs Brandt got a bit frisky in the dark and the hand I felt on my backside was definitely her left!”

 

“Oh, dear Lord.”

 

“Anyway, send a car over and call her into questioning, it won’t take long to crack that nut.”

 

Sherlock hangs up the phone on Lestrade’s protests and carefully steps outside the broom cupboard. Now, all that’s left to do is find Molly and wait patiently for one of the DI’s men to arrive.

 

But when Sherlock enters the dining room again, there’s no sign of Molly anywhere.  What could she possibly be up to? Come to think of it, he can’t see Brandt either. Surely Molly isn’t silly enough to have tried to entice him, hoping to get more evidence?

 

At the very thought, Sherlock’s nerves are on edge. He must conduct a thorough search of the house, but Mrs Berkeley stops him in his tracks before he can head towards the staircase.  

 

“Mr Clark, we’re just about to gather and hear the solution of the whodunit! You have your theories, I suppose? Or are you in fact the murderer yourself?”

 

“Of course not, it was the pastor’s wife who murdered the earl,” Sherlock says impatiently, putting together bits and pieces of conversation he overheard during the evening. “I could explain to you how I came to that conclusion but it would take at least two minutes of my time and I really don’t have that much to spare. Nice touch with the illegitimate child storyline, though.” 

 

He pats her shoulder and leaves her there, mouth hanging open, then bounds for the stairs. It’s a possibility, and a loathsome one at that, that Brandt managed to wheedle Molly into one of the bedrooms for privacy.

 

When he gets to the first floor, he opens two doors off a long corridor with no result and starts to curse under his breath. Thankfully, the third door gives way to a candlelit room. Molly is sitting quietly on the bed, her shoes off and her hair undone. She startles when she sees him.

 

“Oh, it’s you! Is the party over, then?”

 

“Molly, I’ve been looking for you everywhere!” Sherlock exclaims. “What on earth are you doing up here?”

 

“Well, I was murdered – in the story, that is. It said on my card to disappear at eleven and hide in here. Didn’t you hear Mrs Berkeley announce my death?”

 

“No, I was in the cupboard, talking to Lestrade.”

 

“In the…? Never mind. I suppose you figured it out, then?”

 

“I did. And the mystery as well. But you should’ve told me you were going to get killed.”

 

“I couldn’t just show you my card, that’s against the rules!” She gives a little laugh and Sherlock notices an empty champagne flute on the commode.

 

“Who were you supposed to be anyway?” he asks.

 

“Miss Rose Donahue, an innocent debutante. What about you?”

 

Sherlock takes out his card and reads it. “Sir David Archibald, a tycoon with an appetite for scandal. My goodness, how do they come up with these?”

 

“It’s… it’s sort of sexy, I think.”

 

Sherlock slowly raises his eyes up to Molly and keeps very still. She’s jiggling her foot nervously but in her eyes there’s a sort of determination that makes his heart clench.

 

“I mean, just imagine… How do you think Sir David Archibald would react if he found himself in your situation?”

 

Sherlock opens his mouth to reply that he has no idea what she’s talking about but his words have gone abruptly dry. Molly stands from the bed and walks over to him.

 

“You know, in this elegant room, with a young woman entirely at his mercy,” she continues. “Willing to do anything he asked.”

 

He gets the distinct impression she’s not talking about their characters anymore and it hits him right bellow the stomach, eliciting an instant and most uncomfortable response from his body.

 

“Molly,” he rasps, “how many glasses of champagne have you had?”

 

She doesn’t answer, merely steps closer. Her satin dress shimmers languorously under the lace and at this distance, it’s impossible for him not to hold out his hand and touch it, feel it under his fingertips.

 

“I don’t think Sir David Archibald would ask at all, in fact,” she murmurs. “I think he would just take what’s in front of him.”

 

Sherlock knows he’s treading in dangerous territory but a dark corner of his curiosity is stirred by Molly’s words. If he could just pretend to be someone else and forget about the consulting detective, the staunch advocate of celibacy, the man who’d rather be cruel than tongue-tied when faced with a woman’s desire, then perhaps…

 

Molly places her hands on his chest and slides them up to his collar.  _Take what’s in front of you._ Sherlock lets the card fall to the floor, grabs her by the waist and their lips meet in a frantic kiss.

 

 

#

 

“Molly, wait, I – oh God, no, on second thought, don’t stop.”

 

Sherlock’s face is buried in Molly’s neck and her hand has shamelessly begun to peruse bellow the waistband of his trunks when he notices a blue flickering light coming from outside. It’s a wonder the windows aren’t completely fogged up given the heat that’s coming off their bodies. He never knew kissing could be such an intense cardiovascular activity and he’s properly stunned by Molly’s stamina.

 

“Sherlock, what is it?” she pants.

 

“Nothing, just – nothing.” He plunges towards her mouth to kiss her again and decides that it’s more than time to test whether the etymology of the word _slip_ is justified. 

 

But just as he’s sliding the dress up to her waist, the lights come back on. Sherlock freezes. Suddenly the origin of the blue flicker comes crashing into his mind.

 

“Molly, we have to go,” he says, and jumps to his feet.

 

Too late. The door opens and DI Lestrade enters the room while Sherlock is still shoving his shirt into his pants. Molly squeaks and quickly tugs her dress back over her thighs. Lestrade simply glares at them, his eyes looking as if they’re about to bulge out of their sockets.

 

“I – I came to make the arrest,” he stammers, “and since you said you’d be there I thought – or rather, I didn’t think… I’ll give you a moment, yeah?”

 

Sherlock closes his eyes and breathes in deeply. This story will no doubt be a huge hit at NSY.

 

“I’m sorry, Sherlock,” Molly says, getting up from the bed to retrieve her shoes. “I – I never meant to embarrass you in front of Greg.”

 

Sherlock opens his eyes and considers her curiously. “Why would you be sorry? You couldn’t have known. Besides, maybe some of them will stop calling me a freak after they hear about this.”

 

“Well, I won’t tell anyone,” she replies. “And if you want to say you were just pretending for a case, I… I understand.”

 

Sherlock straightens his bowtie. “It is easier for me to pretend. So easy, in fact, that it becomes a way to hide. But… I would like to try not to, sometimes. With your help.”

 

“Really?”

 

He clears his throat, almost demure now. “I’ve found this evening rather… enjoyable and it’s an experience I’d quite like to repeat in a more realistic setting.”

 

“Like a date?”

 

“If you’d like.”

 

Molly doesn’t need to answer. It’s all there on her face, something he’s always found very refreshing. He buttons up his jacket and makes an attempt at slicking back his hair again.

 

“Don’t,” Molly says, and catches his hand in hers. “To be honest, I like you better with the curls.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry for any mistakes, but I wrote this fairly quickly and off the top of my head. I didn't expect to write about cops crashing a party and cockblocking the couple upstairs (this is Sherlock, not Superbad) but it certainly was fun to write.


End file.
